


The Lonely One

by anyalyn



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Drabble, I tried to make it sad, M/M, Post-Richenbach, Setting, hints at johnlock - Freeform, no real action but...
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-11
Updated: 2013-01-11
Packaged: 2017-11-25 03:55:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 299
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/634853
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anyalyn/pseuds/anyalyn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He's reverting and the world keeps moving</p><p> </p><p>(( A setting study. Kind of.))</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Lonely One

**Author's Note:**

> I had to write a short setting for English and it somehow turned into Sherlock.

The old wooden stairs creaked pathetically as the man slowly made his way up. He limped across the small, musty landing and through the old, scratched up door. The apartment was dim and cool, rain thudding against the windows like a pulse. A small fire burned in the fireplace, throwing shadows about the room in a haphazard manner.  
The man shrugged off his coat and slowly lowered himself into an old, pink armchair in the center of the room. His eyes were immediately drawn to the empty leather chair across from him. The leather was cracked and well worn; a violin rested upon the small table beside it.  
The place smelled of tea, with the occasional hint of harsh chemicals. Two porcelain tea cups sat on the coffee table; one empty and stained, the other still filled with a light brown liquid. The cups were almost swallowed by the sea of loose papers that covered the table, some of which were ripped and undecipherable.  
The man slumped down, his clothes rustling against the chair’s fabric. The clock on the wall ticked in time with the pounding rain. The apartment door hung open in a purposeful way, as if the man was expecting someone. The coat rack beside it held only a rugged brown jacket and a thick blue scarf, many of it’s hooks still unused. A table placed on the other side of the door is home to a small pile of envelopes and a wrinkled restaurant menu.  
For a moment the room was lit by the lights of a passing car, only to fall back into shadows a few seconds later. The man’s gaze shifted, so that he was looking a photograph of himself and a man with dark curls and he sighed as the clock ticked on.


End file.
